


scratch out a place to sit and rest down in the dark.

by castcommune



Category: Do No Harm (TV)
Genre: Flashbacks, Ian Related Canon Abuse, Panic Attacks, a LOT of death talk, a lot a lot, domestic abuse mention, poorly described DID from a traumatized man
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-20
Updated: 2020-02-20
Packaged: 2021-02-28 07:07:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22809877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/castcommune/pseuds/castcommune
Summary: Five months ago, back when things were still in motion, when he almost felt bad for his friend with the devil inside of him --- is the devil merely a man with different intentions? Is the devil merely a mirror image, a parallel, an anomaly? || five months post-show, we check in with one ruben marcado.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 7





	scratch out a place to sit and rest down in the dark.

**Author's Note:**

> hello !! this is my very first crack at writing in this fandom, and this fic is VERY heavy on the triggering side of things. it talks heavily about death, decomposition, abuse ( physical, verbal, etc. ), and flashbacks and panic. mostly trauma of the Ian Variety. i think that's it? as always, feel free to leave your comments down below and lemme know what ya think !!

It isn't that he's afraid; he tells himself this at night, when the wind blows a little too hard and rattles the windowpanes, when a door slams just a few apartments down and shakes the scarce decorations of his own ramshackle residence; it's just the couple that lives four doors down, he knows, remembers their argument from two nights ago --- the one that sent him spiraling into another flashback, curled up in his bed and breathing so heavy he's certain they could hear him all the way back in Philadelphia, the one where she yelled that he  _ can't do this _ , where he yelled _ I can, because who's going to stop me?  _

He isn't afraid. He isn't afraid, because if he was, then he would probably be dead right now, right? He would be lying somewhere, forgotten and abandoned and left to whatever scavengers ravage the dead here in Montego Bay; the elements would have their fun first, he's sure, that's what always happens to a corpse when it's left to rot in isolation --- then would come the bugs, the maggots and the flies planting roots in his organs and having their own little rave within this body that has seen so much, this godforsaken dark that kept him moving for so, so long. Then, when the bugs have had their fun, the rodents would probably take a few bites, a bit of nutrition from this person who no longer serves a purpose, no longer has anyone begging for a drug, or for security, for salvation --- he doesn't suspect this dead, rotten thing would taste very good, but remnants never do. Scraps never do.

He isn't afraid; he sits on his couch, looking over his notebook that contains things he no longer has any need for, but he's still curious; he still wants the answer, because he _ knows _ that it's out there --- even if it can't help Jason, maybe someday in the far, distant future, it can help  _ someone _ , and he thinks that this is perfect, that he can _ solve _ it, once and for all, but then he catches glimpse of a shadow passing by the window across from him. Despite the curtains blocking out any semblance of recognition, despite there being no way anyone could've found him, not here, not like this. He's been so careful with giving fake names, with paying in only cash, with getting by just well enough to survive, and Ian can't still be after him, right? He has a life ---  _ Jason _ has a life, last he checked --- and Montego Bay is so far from home; the flight was four hours and six minutes long. Ruben remembers; four hours, six minutes, and twenty-four seconds in the air, then they landed. Then things happened that he would rather not remember.

He isn't afraid; god _ damn  _ it, he isn't afraid, but that shadow felt like it _ knew _ him, and the darkness feels like it is calling his  _ name _ and it sounds an awful lot like 

(  _ Ruben, you can't hide forever.   
_ _ Rubes, let's do this the easy way.  
_ _ Ruben, come out and I'll make it quick...ish.  _ )

and he knows, he  _ knows _ , that there's still a chance. There's always a chance; Ian could catch a flight by 10, and he could fly all the way here. How he would find this apartment, how he would trace nonexistent tracks and locate someone who hopefully disappeared off his radar  _ months _ ago...well, Ruben doesn't know. He just knows that Ian's determination trumps only Jason's selfishness, and as retrospect often does, this means far more than it would've meant merely five months ago. Five months ago, back when things were still in motion, when he almost felt  _ bad _ for his friend with the devil inside of him --- is the devil merely a man with different intentions? Is the devil merely a mirror image, a parallel, an anomaly? He once thought that everyone had both evil and good within them, it was just a matter of leaning into the light; now, sitting in this unlit room, he wonders if someone could reach into a soul and dredge this putrid dark to the forefront of the mind. He wonders if another person, with intent and determination and vengeance on the tip of his tongue, could block the light so harshly that nothing could ever grow again; how could anyone do that to another human being? How? 

He isn't afraid, but he's still thinking about that shadow. He's still listening for any sign of a struggle next door, for that timid man who he sees sometimes in the early morning rays, going for a walk he claims keeps him young --- he waits to hear this man scream, or for the definitive thud of a body falling to the floor. Ian would spare no witness, and he would want to draw just enough attention for Ruben to notice, for Ruben to _ know _ ; he listens for these things, or for that voice that haunts his dreams each and every time he closes his eyes, a voice that says

( _ Do you want to talk about it here, or when we land? _ )

and he still  _ thinks  _ about it sometimes, even when he doesn't want to, even when he'd much rather be dead and lying somewhere, left alone with the bugs and the rain and the rats that would gain no more health from him than he did from Ian; he listens closely, allows feet to find solid ground beneath him and drag body to the wall, to lean against it and press his ear to the drywall and ---  _ nothing. _ He hears nothing, but this doesn't mean that Ian isn't still there. This doesn't mean that he's safe, and this thought sends a _ new _ wave of terror down his spine, a chill like a knife, like a needle, like fresh blood being taken from his arm and dragged along the doors 

(  **I KNOW.** )

and god, okay, maybe he _ is _ afraid. Maybe just a little, but he has nowhere else to _ go _ , now does he? He could grab his money and his phone and run off somewhere, sure, but Ian would most definitely hear him; Ian would know, because Ian  _ always _ knows, and so Ruben just stands there. Motionless, frozen, still listening to _ nothing _ , still hearing nothing but the windowpanes trembling outside, and the ragged breaths escaping his own lips, and he swears he could hear his heart beating, too, if he listened closely enough. His mind, at the moment, is churning out only fear, only memory, and

(  _ Ruben, you can't hide forever. _ )

and _ fuck _ , he thinks, god  _ damn _ it, why can't they just leave him alone? Why can't they just figure out their lives without him? Why is it so imperative that  _ he  _ be the one to fix a problem he didn't even cause to begin with? He was just another employee at some dumb, fucking hospital. He was just a chemist, he was just a guy who didn't know how to say 

"No," he mutters, quietly and under his breath. " -- no, this can't be _happening,_ " but it is, Ruben, and he knows that it is. It _is,_ and there is nowhere left to run, there are no more warehouses to escape to, no more alleyways to take shortcuts through; he looks to the front door, locked and firm and he looks to the window, where he thought he saw the shadow pass, and he thinks about the bedroom, in the back of the apartment; was that window covered, too? Surely it was, he wouldn't be foolish enough to leave something open and vulnerable like that, but what if he was? God, he thinks, god _damn_ it, he could get in _,_ he could find a way in and I'm gonna _die_ here, after five long months of absolute terror and fear and nothing but _panic_ and flashbacks and crying until my _eyes_ _are dry_ , because

(  _ You can't hide forever.  
_ _ Come on out, Ruben, let's play a little game.  _ )

He listens, still, and still, there is nothing; he looks to the window in front of him. There are no shadows nearby, there are no footfalls to be heard, but that doesn't mean that Ian isn't still here; that only means that Ian is trying to be quiet. That only means that no one will even know what  _ happens _ to him, and isn't that fitting, he thinks; people back home probably didn't even pay his disappearance any mind, and now he will die once and for all, in a country where he has little more than false names, flimsy alibis, and a handful of neighbors who likely only know him as the man who looks over his shoulder like he's got the devil after him; for all he knows, he just might.

He stands like this for five minutes, ten, fifteen; he waits, vigilant and frozen and if Ian is going to kill him, why hasn't he just  _ done _ it already? What's _ taking  _ him so long? Surely Ian wouldn't waste this much time, knowing he has to be back home by 8 in the morning --- he stands like this for another five minutes, another ten, but nothing ever  _ happens _ . Nothing, and hell, maybe he  _ is _ just imagining all of this; maybe Ian doesn't care this much about him, not after all these months ---- this is a bit of a futile thought, he knows, but he wants it to sound reassuring. He wants it to bring comfort to the panic in his mind, threatening to bubble over the edge; Ian isn't here. Ian isn't here, and he's been standing like this, listening through the wall, for almost  _ 45 minutes now _ , and Ruben, don't you need to still eat dinner? Don't you need to take a breath, just this once?

He sighs, still quiet, still frantic, before sliding down the wall, sitting on the floor with his back up against it and his elbows propped up on his knees; he takes in a breath --- ragged, terrified, unhinged, as if the air entering his lungs would prove toxic upon impact. It doesn't, but he takes in one more, just to be sure; he's safe, he thinks, repeats it in his mind like a mantra. He's safe, he's safe, 

"I'm okay," he mumbles these words beneath his breath, a weak smile accompanying the words. "I'm safe, I'm okay," and that would have to be enough, he thinks, at least for now. At least for tonight. 


End file.
